We Do What We Must
by ThePrettiestPoison
Summary: Pre-series. John, Dean, and Sam Winchester go on what should be a routine hunt, and Sammy learns a little bit about doing what he has to, even if he doesn't want to, because sometimes the roles are reversed. Eventual hurt!Dean. Teenage Winchester boys.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: So. If you do the math, he Winchester boys grew up in the eighties/nineties. Their father hunted supernatural beings for a living as an ex-marine. I'm going to go ahead with the assumption here that the boys did, in fact, get the crap beat out of them as children. Not abuse so much as punishment. Verging on abuse at some points, in quality more than quantity. He doesn't seem the type for the belt routine.**

**"I have a little policy…about honesty and ass-kicking, and that is: If you ask for it, then I have to let you have it"—Taylor Mali**

**That seemed an appropriate quote to throw in, in reference to John Winchester.**

**Sam: 13**

**Dean: 17**

**No matter how nicely I ask, they probably won't ever give me Supernatural. So credit for the characters goes to Erik Kirpke.**

We Do What We Must

A fan fiction by Brooklynne Benson

Chapter 1: Something Routine

The '67 glided almost gracefully over the highway, smoothly cutting over the speed limit by a solid twenty miles per hour. At eighty five miles per hour, the engine's growling was all that stood in the way of the word 'graceful' in reference to the piece of raw power. John Winchester was behind the wheel, and calling anything John associated with as 'graceful' was as blasphemous as calling any one of the things he hunted 'pretty'. John Winchester did not associate well with 'graceful' or 'pretty'. It was his belief that anything that could be hunted with silver, iron, or salt and with the outward appearance of beauty could be counted on as intrinsically hideous. The concept of genuine beauty had died in him long ago.

It was with this outlook he regarded his life—as one big routine of hunt/kill, permeated only by the most fleeting glimpses at hope towards his larger objective which was the demise of the yellow eyed demon that had first taken his wife.

Currently he was occupying himself with the former of his occupations: the routine—this time just few demonic possessions, more numerous than they ought to be, in the small town outside of Sheridan, California. Piles of research papers were stacked between him and his son on the bench seat, teetering precariously in some futile attempt at organization. His eldest son's hand was resting on the top of the pile, his fingers curled limply around the map he'd fallen asleep holding. His forehead was resting against the window, his breath fogging up a patch of the it as he breathed slow and easy onto the cool surface. John's worn leather jacket was draped over him like a blanket. John cranked up the heater, checking the rearview mirror. Sam was staring pensively out the window, and John would have given anything to know what he was brooding on this time. He could never tell, and he'd never asked. John was not the emotional father type. If that meant he had questions for his son to which he would never have answers, then that was just as well. John wasn't sure that he wanted to know. Sam's outward defiance was enough to have to deal with in stark contrast to Dean's general obedience, nevermind what he didn't know.

"When we get to the motel, you and Dean salt the doors and windows. The smaller duffle bag on the right hand side in the trunk will do you fine for the night. I'll be back before sunrise."

"What are you going to do?" Sam asked, and he turned to stare at his father. He frowned, his eyes glistening with a familiarly dramatic amount of needless concern.

"Just talk to a few people. Stake some places out." Sam didn't bother to even look like he believed it.

"As though your brother would let me go on a hunt alone," John tried a smile, but it didn't touch his eyes. He was tired—it had been a long day, and he half a mind to go without Dean never mind the fit he would throw. If not for his fatigue, he might have considered it more seriously. At the mention of his brother Sam glanced over at the passenger's side where Dean was asleep. John slowed to something approaching the speed limit as they passed the City Limits road sign. They pulled into the first motel they saw, a dingy thing with one L-shaped string of rooms aside from the shoebox of a main office.

"Dean, son," John said, his voice low. Sam shook his shoulder gently. Dean snapped to attention, his eyes darting around for any hint of danger he might have missed. "We're here."

"Oh," and he immediately relaxed, deflating against the seat before unbuckling his seatbelt and following John and Sam out into the chilly night air.

"I'm going to go do some research after I check us in. Check the bags," John said over his shoulder as his eyes scanned the parking lot and he made his way to the front office, fake credit card already in hand.

"You don't think he's going to do any hunting tonight, do you?" Sam asked.

"Naw," Dean yawned. "He's been driving all day. Not on his A-game. Don't worry about it." Sam put the idea out of his head with a sense of obedience he could never show his father. Dean wouldn't lie to him, even if it was just for the sake of comfort. It was from this concept Sam's trust in him stemmed. "What's that?" He was staring at the binder under Sam's arm as he slung the smaller duffle bag over his shoulder and slammed the trunk.

"Homework," Sam answered. Dean frowned at him but said nothing, just led the way towards the front office door. His dad came out, brandishing two keys—one of which he threw to Dean.

"Salt the doors and windows, don't answer the phone—"

"Unless it rings once first." Dean finished for him.

"Don't cut me off, boy. I remember the last time you thought you had the rules down," John fixed Dean with his most potent father-glare and Dean fell silent. Sam pursed his lips at the surrender. He thought about saying something but John continued before he could get the words in his head. "Keep each other safe." Dean nodded dutifully, and Sam mimicked the motion. He couldn't imagine how he would have to keep his brother safe—it had always been the other way around. The idea of the roles being reversed terrified him. He didn't like to think about it.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC. More action in the next chapter I swear. I know this one focused a lot on John. There was a purpose behind that.<strong>

**Read and review please.**


	2. Chapter 2 Part 1

**So the ending to the last chapter starts here, because I felt like the other one ended rather aburptly and I wanted to get more Sam/John in there. People seemed to like the whole Sam/John relationship.**

**In order to avoid confusion I'll let you know when I change the chapters, and I'll name them. Be warned, I have an issue with keeping chapter titles concise. We'll call it Panic!At the Disco/A Fever You Can't Sweat Out syndrome. Apologies.**

**I'm rambling now. Read, review, and enjoy! Suggestions, comments, and critiques all welcome.**

Later that night, Sam was working on his fourth page of makeup work for Algebra 2 when the Impala's growling engine approached and the reflection of light from the headlights slid across the walls. Sam quickly flicked off the light and stumbled through the dark to jump beneath the covers of he and his brother's bed. Dean snickered somewhere in the darkness and when Sam turned all he saw was the outline of Dean's face highlighted by the wane moonlight, and the reflection of it in his eyes as he stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head.

"Smooth, Sammy," he whispered.

"Shut up, jerk," Sam threw an elbow, and from the grunt of pain and the sharp feeling of bone digging into his elbow, he would have guessed he'd nailed Dean in the nose.

"Bitch," Dean hissed, rubbing—yes—his nose. Sam smirked to himself. They both listened to the sound of the tumblers clicking and moving, and their dad thudded into the room, gun in hand. When he saw the two lumps beneath the covers across the room, he lowered the gun, sighing as he made his way to the bed. Sam feigned sleep but watched from beneath his heavy bangs and barely-open eyes as his father lifted his pillow and put the gun underneath. Sam snapped his eyes shut when John moved with a groan to the other side of the bed and stood over him. Sam thus didn't see the genuine smile that lit up John's tired, scruffy features as he admired his two sons. He ran a quick hand through Dean's short, blonde hair, patted Sam on the shoulder, and stepped away to let them sleep. He was about to go to bed himself before he caught sight of the binder on the table. Sam heard his footsteps stop short there, and the quiet tap of the binder's front flap hitting the table. Papers were shuffled around quietly for a few moments, before John let out another audible sigh. Sam thought it might be out of disappointment rather than fatigue, and he internally cursed himself. He fell asleep feeling the bitter sting of what he could only read as his father's disappointment. John fell asleep with an altogether different mindset—one of pride. Sam could use his head. Maybe he'd be fine.

Chapter 2: Riding the Pine

The next morning the three Winchester boys were gathered around the table in a 50's themed diner and both boys were focused rather intently on the concept of food, having had nothing since an early dinner the day prior. It was only when the waitress approached with a pad in hand was their collective attention diverted from the menu. She was wearing a lot of makeup for this time in the morning, Sam observed. He smelled immediate trouble upon giving her a once over. Curvy and blonde. He didn't dare glance over at his brother. If you could call what Sam had done scanning, Dean was probably _evaluating._

"What can I get y'all to drink?" she asked politely, biting her lip.

"Coffee for me thanks," John answered vacantly.

"Same," Dean answered automatically, flashing her a smile. His eyes were trained on her face. Sam frowned for a moment but said nothing.

"Orange juice," he answered and when she had gone, "Since when do you drink coffee?"

"Since I decided I needed to be a hundred percent awake to save your ass," Dean answered sharply. Sam grumbled something unintelligible.

"What was that, Sammy?"

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam snapped automatically.

"Boys," John interjected sharply, and they both fell quiet, though Sam with some amount of insolence. He let out a small, noncommittal 'tcht'. John shot him a look. "Boy, you better watch it."

Sam was saved by the waitress, who had returned with a hot pot of coffee and a tall glass of orange juice. He looked over at Dean, who appeared to be continuing his evaluation of her figure.

"Are y'all ready?" she asked, pulling out her pad of paper again.

"I'll have the value meal. Eggs sunny side up," John answered.

"Bacon or sausage?"

"Bacon."

"For you?" she turned to Dean and he had the cajones, much to Sam's horror, to flash her his most charming smile and wink at her. Sam promptly buried his face in his hands.

"What do you recommend?"

"Oh God…" Sam mumbled, because couldn't help it. Dean had upped his game for her second go-around.

"The breakfast burrito is pretty good," she smiled obliviously.

"I'll have that then," he smiled.

"A short stack of pancakes. Side of sausage." _And a razor with which to slit my wrists._ She took the menus from them and cat-walked away. Dean didn't even attempt to hide it.

"You're shameless," Sam groaned, his face once again behind his hands. John tapped him on the head, though not unkindly, and frowned at him.

"Can we focus now?" It wasn't a question. Dean cleared his throat and Sam peeled his eyes away from his brother after one last long, disturbed look. "Demons."

"Did you find out why they're here?"

"I found out enough," John answered. "The bartender from the local bar around the corner has been watching Jamie Larson and Collin Burleigh come in and out of his bar every night for the past three weeks. Accompanied by Beatrice Nelson, now missing. A few nights ago the three of them left in some kind of altercation. Later that night, Beatrice went missing."

"So wait…the demons are yanking each other?" Dean asked. "Sounds like they're doing our job for us."

"Yeah, except the numbers are going up," John frowned. "A week ago there wasn't a demon for a hundred miles."

"So why are they here?" Sam asked aloud.

"There's something is this town that they want, and they're willing to kill each other for it."

"So if we find the object they'll looking for—" Dean started, but John shook his head.

"Not if. _When_. Whatever they're after is probably something we're going to want on hand, either because it's something they'd use to strengthen their own powers, or a weapon that could hurt them that they don't want any hunters getting their hands on."

"So we catch one, give it a shower with some Holy water, and make it tell us what it is and where," Sam said. John smiled at his son's quick thinking.

"I like the thinking. That's a good plan, Sam, but I called Bobby already. He's coming out to help me with that one. Things are too sketchy around here. You boys are going to stay out of the way—"

"Whoa, what?" Dean whipped his head around to face his father. "No way!"

"Dean," John's voice was lethally calm, just above a whisper.

"Dad, that's not fair," Dean argued. Sam smirked.

"Dean, you sound like a twelve year old girl."

"Shut up, Samantha," Dean snapped, without tearing his eyes away from his father. Sam rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. "Dad, you can't be serious. We're not going to sit in the motel and—"

"That's exactly what you're going to do, because I said so. You're going to sit in that motel and stay out of trouble," the edge in John's voice made it perfectly clear just how final his decision was, and if not for the arrival of their food, Sam had the idea that Dean might have continued to argue. This was all that they ever argued about. Nothing below the scale of a heart-attack was likely to keep Dean off a hunt. The waitress slid Sam's plate in front of him, then John's, and saved Dean's for last. Sam didn't miss the slip of paper that she handed him with the plate before she did another elegant catwalk down the aisle. John was staring at his coffee, shuffling somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "Eat your breakfast."

Dean didn't dare continue the discussion in public. They were sitting in the motel room watching John pack a duffle bag full of Holy Water and salt when Dean decided to bring it up again.

"Dad, I don't think we should sit this one out The more people we have on this job, the safer it's going to be—"

"I don't need you both in the way. And more than that, I don't need the two of you getting hurt. This is too big of a job. We're in over our heads here," John argued, raising his voice a few decibels.

"Exactly, so why don't we all—"

"I don't have to justify myself to you, Dean! You know how dangerous this can be! Now quit arguing!" John yelled back, and raised his belt. Dean took the hint and bit his lip. Sam continued to stare. Usually it would have been him fighting his father, though admittedly not over making him stay behind. "You stay here, and you take care of Sammy, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Dean grumbled just as there was a heavy knock on the door. John shrugged past his son, throwing the belt down on the bed. Sam noticed he didn't put it away, and threw Dean a warning glance. Bobby stepped through the doorway with a gruff 'hello'.

"Hey boys!" he greeted Dean and Bobby with much more enthusiasm. Dean threw him a half-assed smile, and Bobby took that to mean that yes, he was being left behind and no, he most definitely wasn't okay with it.

"Don't be so sore, kid," he ruffled Dean's hair, the Bobby equivalent of a hug, and came over to stand behind Sam's chair, smiling at him as he flitted through the stacks of paperwork on the table. "Heavy stuff, John. You got a plan?"

John gave him a significant look, irritated almost to the point of offense that Bobby would have guessed otherwise. Bobby raised his eyebrows and sucked in a breath. John Winchester. He'd come close to not picking up the phone. Now he remembered why.


	3. Chapter 2 Part 2

**Featured in this chapter: The first time ever (in my little universe) that Sam and Dean have the 'bitch' 'jerk' banter.**

**Also featured, the dreaded belt. Yeah. If you grew up in the nineties, you know what the belt meant. The sight of either of your parents removing it from their waste made you immediately run over a list of possible offenses in your head. Yeah. Yeah you know it.**

**I'm sorry for the delay, length, and significant lack of (let's be honest) substance to this chapter-it has some weight towards the end, I promise. I haven't had a whole lot of time these past few days, but I wanted to give you all _something_**, at least, because you guys are awesome.****

****Enjoy!****

John did have a plan, as it turned out, One that Bobby immediately deemed idiotic and reckless before John had the chance to finish. Sam and Dean watched with a practiced air of neutrality. Such was the occasion whenever Bobby visited—he and John would dispute over the plan, John's years of experience pinned against Bobby's raw instinct and sense of self-preservation.

"We can't assume these guys aren't practiced demons, John! We don't know how smart they are!" Bobby half shouted.

"We can assume they're not the brightest if they're acting out this much—getting a hunter's attention!"

"We don't _know_ that! Figuring they _are_ just that ignorant, how do we know they won't assume we're gonna get the jump on us?"

"So what do you want to do, Bobby?" John snarled, slamming one of Bobby's books closed.

"Sit down and think for a minute!"

"We have thought about this. We need to get this done—now."

"John if you want to catch a demon, we can catch a demon but not this way!"

"Fine, then, you don't have to help me! I can go on my own."

"Like hell!"

John's plan was severely flawed, admittedly, but he couldn't wait any longer.

"You want to ambush a demon. Lead it into someplace you're not familiar with, and hope that it's stupid enough to walk right across a devil's trap."

"A hidden one. They wouldn't know—"

Bobby threw up his hands in exasperation. "Right. A hidden one. That makes it ten times less crazy."

"Bobby would you just listen? It only has to work once. Once we have it caught, we have everything else we need."

"If Bobby doesn't want to help, then I will," Dean stood up. Sam pulled him right back down into the chair next to him out of base instinct.

"No!" John and Bobby's ringing voices came in unison this time. Dean slammed a fist into the table with barely concealed frustration.

"Dean, you and I will talk later," and the threat behind his father's words was so prominent that Dean's eyes flicked automatically to the belt that still lay on the bed. Bobby bowed his head, rubbing his temple.

"Okay, John. If you want to do it your way…that's fine. But at least let's take our time finding someplace defendable?"

"I already have a place," John said. With that, the decision was made. Bobby sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well then, we'd better get moving. Which care are we taking?"

"We can't let them get the Impala. The arsenal in the trunk is either gonna scare them away or make them want to torch it."

"The truck's just the same, but if the boys are staying then I reckon leaving the stuff with them can't do any harm."

"Bobby, you and Sam get the stuff loaded. I need to have a talk with my son," John's voice was placid enough, but just as Bobby was marching Sam out the motel room door, Sam saw John grab the belt and he knew that Dean was in for a rough time. He couldn't say he hadn't deserved it—disputing with his father in front of Uncle Bobby had been a new level of defiant.

Sam watched Dean toss the baseball up in the air and catch it deftly for what must have been the hundredth time. It landed in his hand with a definitive smack, the noise grinding at Sam's nerves, but he didn't say anything. He knew how frustrated his brother was.

"Do you think dad is just making you stay behind because he doesn't want me in the way?" Sam asked after a few solid hours of perfect silence. He'd finished all the Algebra he could do, plus some English. Sam Winchester had officially become bored of learning. At least for the next few hours.

"Dude. You're anything but in the way." Sam tried not to imagine why in the world Dean sounded so jealous. "He probably would have taken you with him over me."

Sam laughed. "No. I wouldn't listen to him."

"You're probably right," Dean smirked. "Why do you guys always have to fight?" His tone evoked more emotion than usual—there was a hint of something like exasperation there.

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly, feeling a little guilty. "I didn't know it bothered you—"

"Well it does. One of us has to be the good son, and apparently it isn't going to be me anymore," Dean deflected quickly. "So toe the line, or I'm going to get on your ass about it, too." He got up and replaced Sam's baseball next to his bag on the bed.

"You already do," Sam muttered.

"What was that?" Dean turned around, giving his brother a playful shove. Sam toppled over in his chair and landed on the ground.

"Nothing. Why are you such a jerk?" Sam pulled on his brother's leg from the ground, so that he landed in a heap within arm's reach.

"Why are you such a bitch?" And that was that. Sam rolled over so that he could properly pin his brother with the intent of harm. He hadn't quite passed Dean up though, height or weight wise: he was still a gangly thirteen year old. Dean had him flat on his face in a minute, tasting the fibers of the cheap motel carpet. Sam's arm was behind his back before he had a chance to react.

"Uncle!" he yelped before Dean could twist it any more. Dean's grip slackened and he took the opportunity to shrug off his brother. Sighing he returned to the table, feeling his brother's restlessness almost infect him. He shifted through the notes again, feeling useless. Bored, he picked up one of the odder pieces of paperwork—an intricate drawing of a revolver.

"What is this?"

"I don't know. Dad thinks it might have something to do with this. He's not sure. It may be what they want."

"A gun?"

"I guess."

"Why would demons need a gun?"

"Dad wouldn't say," Dean answered.

"Dad talks a lot for someone who never says anything."

"You mean bosses us around a lot," Dean corrected. Sam nodded. "God, not this again."

"I'm just saying."

There was a pause, in which Sam realized that Dean was considering something—an assumption he could make through brotherly instinct, based on the distinctly thoughtful look that came over Dean's features—a fleeting moment of the combination of insight/stupidity he usually got when under pressure.

"What are you thinking?"

"There's a place down the street just a few blocks. They sell guns and knives. Do you think they could tell us more about this thing?"

"Dad said not to leave."

"Since when do you do what Dad says without question?"

"Since you stopped," but because Dean was pulling on his shoes and Sam knew he was probably obligated to go with him, he picked up his shoes from beside the door and pulled them on. Dean grabbed a bottle of water from the duffle bag and a small drawstring pouch of salt. He threw another to Sam and pulled on his jacket. "I figure if dad and Bobby are out trying to get the attention of these demons, they're not going to be paying much attention to anything else. Especially not some gun store. They've probably already checked the place over anyways."

"What makes you think this guy will know anything?"  
>"I don't know. It's old time stuff, you know? Antique or whatever," Dean watched Sammy shrug into his jacket, grabbed the key off the table, and led the way into the breezy dusk.<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

**So all these reviews and story alerts are making me feel better. I'm sorry for the delay. A lot has happened lately, and it's been somewhat…(grumble grumble complain complain you guys don't care you just want to story so here.)**

Chapter 3: Double Trap

The first feeling that Bobby had that something was wrong was that John seemed a little nervous himself. Something was very off indeed, and if the sensation was bad enough that it rocked John's nerves, Bobby knew that it, undoubtedly, should worry him. John Winchester didn't get nervous.

"What do you think?" Bobby asked, his eyes scanning the empty barn. They were standing on a carpet of moldy hay, smelling sulfur and damp horse. There was a breeze from outside and the entire frame of the old, decrepit barn groaned in protest.

"I think it's too calm. They should have been here by now," John replied.

"Sorry boys, it's just me," the voice was that of a stranger—a tall broad-shouldered man of thirty or so, with ruffled blonde hair and small, impish features. John and Bobby both took a few steps back. "And you're still out of your league."

"We just came to talk," John said, taking a step back. The demon took a step forward the same distance, as though the two were attached by an invisible string. Another step back. Another step forwards. Just a few most steps and he would be inside the trap.

"Yes, yes, I know," the demon hissed, waving a dismissive hand. Bobby flew backwards into one of the stall doors, out cold. John kept his eyes trained on the demon. "It's not here—what we're both looking for."

"How did you know—"

"Please. The loose cannon hunter John Winchester goes through the trouble of letting a demon know he's in town and he doesn't make an attempt on my life? Come on now. Don't insult my intelligence. Especially not with the half-assed attempts at luring me into a devil's trap." With that, the demon's eyes flicked downwards and fell straight on the first outside curves of the devil's trap, and John knew that they were most royally screwed. He spared Bobby half a glance. He was stirring slightly. John's intentions were to stall, but the demon cut him off. "So let's talk, John. Obviously we can't let you all out of here alive—yes I did say 'all'. We know about your sons. Which brings me to my next point. Why I'm alone."

John felt a pang of fear, which was immediately quelled by his confidence in his son's abilities to obey strict orders, especially under the current circumstances. "I thought you guys were just arrogant bastards. But it doesn't matter—there's a few pounds of salt between you and my boys, and once I'm through with you here, I'll go after your friends the same way."

It was then that Bobby dragged himself off the floor, with an alarming amount of agility for someone of both his age and current physical condition. His hands groped desperately for the bucket that lay just out of reach and found the purchase of the handle within moments. With a grunt of effort he launched the bucket's contents at the demon, who shrank back instinctively and let out a bloodcurdling scream at the contact. He stumbled backwards, towards John, and directly into the devil's trap, where he curled into a ball. Bobby let the bucket drop and joined John with a satisfied grin.

"Holy water," he said proudly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

The demon took a few moments to regain his composure, shuddering almost convulsively in his partial fetal position. He let out an animalistic growl as his eyes flicked black and stayed that way. John watched with thinly veiled contempt.

"So what's the plan? Exorcise this one here and let the other's come find him?" Bobby asked.

"Let the others find me. Take your time, they're probably already done with your little boys," the demon hissed.

"Like I said, the salt—"

"John, you didn't let me finish. Your boys aren't at the motel room. They were trying to help their daddy find his little gun. They left the little safe box."

"You lying son of a bitch."

"Go back then. Check. You know I'm not going anywhere." There was such unrestrained superiority in the demon's voice that John thought about giving him a good kick in the ribs. Not because it would be particularly effective, but more for his own satisfaction.

"Go, John. I'll take care of this son of a bitch and catch up with you," Bobby's voice was thick with concern.

"Alright," John clapped him on the shoulder for thanks and fixed his most penetrating glare on the demon, almost a little upset that he didn't have the time to watch him suffer.

"John," Bobby called, just before John was around the open barn door. "Be careful. Ya idjit."

"Asshole," John smirked, and disappeared after his sons, still at least a little confident that the demon had been bluffing in one last ditch effort to save his own life. Such was not to be the case, for as John turned the corner and came upon their motel room he found the lights flicked off and the entire place looking quite deserted. With a glimmer of hope he inserted the key into the lock, turned it, and took a step into the dark and desolate motel room, which was completely devoid of any teenage boys, surly looking and dejected or otherwise.

"Dammit!"

**Yes, yes that was a Dean and Sam, Bobby and John parallel. I like to think of them as quarrelling brothers. No Dean and Sam this time, sorry guys. Next chapter, I promise.**


	5. Chapter 4

**A silly title for once, because I was itching to do a silly one.**

**You get a very recent update, because it's late on a Friday night and my plans have been more or less demolished completely.**

**I'm going for the 'idiosyncratic martyr' feel lately. I'm a theatre kid, I like me some dramatics…**

**Anyways. Here you go. Read and review, you guys have been great so far so keep it up—that's what keeps the story going!**

Chapter 4: Write a Poem About It

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"It's really desolate out here."

"Desolate?"

"Empty."

"Okay, Samantha. Write a poem about it," Dean's voice was thick with sarcasm. Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and glared. When Dean returned his glare with a lopsided grin he moved he rolled his eyes and looked away. They walked some short distance before Dean abruptly stopped, and Sam bumped right into him. Dean let out a curse under his breath.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Look like you're looking for your phone," Dean said, holding Sam's gaze. "Don't look around. There's a girl on the corner. I saw her in the manila folder dad had. It's that Jamie girl."

"The demon?"

"I have the holy water."

"I have the salt."

"Just act like it's no big deal. Maybe she doesn't know."

"Dude. We're on a main street."

"That would be a problem for her if it weren't for the fact that it's fuckin' desolate."

"Well jeez, Dean. Write a poem," Sam had his fingers curled around the little water bottle full of salt that he had in his coat pocket. The two tried not to look conspicuous as Dean watched her over Sam's shoulder. She passed by moving with a sense of purpose—her eyes flicked back over her shoulder just once to see if they were still there and she took an immediate sharp left just before the gun store.

"What was she doing?" Sam asked, and the two stayed rooted to the spot under the sickly yellow glow of a flickering streetlight.

"Not the gun store. Question is, why not?" Dean narrowed his eyes at the corner around which she had disappeared.

"Do you think she knows that we're headed that way?"

"How could she? I think she didn't want anyone seeing her going in there. If she's up to no good."

"So she won't be around there then?"

"If she is, we'll just leave. Head back as soon as we see her. I just want to check and see if they have it. Or if they know of it, at least."

Sam followed him but refused to relax his grip on the salt. From the looks of it, Dean didn't put down the Holy Water either. The two made their way down the thankfully well-lit but nonetheless empty street towards the shop, whose only sign of life was a lit neon sign, the dim glow of fluorescents behind the tinted glass front wall, and an Oldsmobile parked out front.

Sam was only aware of the tension he'd been holding in his muscles when they relaxed all at once with the delicate charm sound that signified their arrival. The sound of the bell on the door brought the cashier around the front of the display case behind which he'd been crouching—a case full of dangerous and intricate looking knives of all shapes and sizes. Dean couldn't help but admire them for a moment.

"Can I help you?" the shop owner was an older gentleman, with white hair and lots of lines. His skin was tanned and patchy looking, and as he stared down at them through his thick glasses, Sam couldn't help but feel the air of suspicion with which he was regarding them.

"We were looking for something. A gun, in particular. An old revolver," Dean pulled the folded up picture out of his coat pocket and handed it to the man.

"A Colt," he ascertained with an expert pursing of his lips. "Quite old. Probably very valuable but no, I haven't seen it before. Quite a few have been asking me."

Dean and Sam exchanged worried glances. "Oh yeah? Was one of these people a girl? Tall girl—heeled boots and bright orange hair?"

"That would be her. She was in here just earlier. You know her?"

"Yeah. Family friend. Our…dad…is a collector. You happen to know where we might find one of these?"

"Antique weapons isn't really a common profession son. I'm sorry," the man shrugged. "If there's anything else you're interested in…?" His voice was doubtful.

"No, that was all. Thanks, though," Dean gave the man a polite and yet painfully disappointed smile and turned for the door with Sammy trailing him.

"What now?" Sam asked as they headed out into the open air.

"I don't think the demons will be much trouble anymore. They should head out after they figure out there's nothing here. Either that or they keep killing each other off."

"I wonder why that Jamie girl wasn't with the others. Dad and Bobby were going to pull them all in, weren't they?"

"Worried about Daddy?" Jamie's voice was soft in his ear as they cut out into one of the darker streets down the block from the shop. Sam whipped around, water bottle in hand, but the cap was too loose and she knocked it deftly out of the way with a flick of her wrist. Dean jerked Sammy back by the arm, pelting her with Holy water and taking off. Sam's brain caught up with Dean's legs and he sprinted after him. They two ran side by side down the block. They were almost to the motel when Sam heard Dean drop heavily beside him, dragged backwards by the demon from thirty feet back.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, alarmed. Dean had dropped his bottle of Holy water. Sam sprinted after him and picked it up off the ground.

"No, no!" the demon cooed, and Dean's throat flew into her waiting hand. Dean gasped for breath and Sam froze ten feet away, Holy water poised. "We're all going to see your daddy together, understand? None of that nasty stuff, if you please." Sam didn't move. "I'm not above sending one of you back to your dad in pieces." So saying the demon took the knife and traced a line over Dean's clavicle, driving it in deep in the niche just between his chest and his shoulder.

And big bad Dean, whose everyday aspiration was to make sure no pain was inflicted upon his brother, screamed out in agony and bore witness to Sam's most hysterical outburst of emotional distress. Nothing alarmed him more than seeing his brother hurt—seeing his brother _tortured_ was a new level of emotional pain.

"No! Dean! Please! Let him go!"

"Let him go? No, Sam. That's not how this works. You're going to set those ugly things down right now, and the three of us are going to take a little trip. And if either of you try running…well…you won't get very far."

As though to enforce the point, her hand slid down Dean's torso, bloody knife still in hand.

"Hey, demon girl, watch it. I don't do the kinky dominatrix thing." For Dean had taken one look at his mortified brother and ascertained that a smart ass remark was most definitely the only way to calm Sam's nerves and assure him in no uncertain terms that he was okay. (At least his personality, if nothing else.)

Jamie didn't think the remark was any more amusing than Sam had, and she plunged the knife into the outside of Dean's thigh. He did his best not to scream, sucking in a breath in one slow hiss and relinquishing such a torrent of profanities upon the demon that she quirked her eyebrow and smiled at him.

"Walk."

Sammy took an instinctive step forward, half wondering if the demon was going to stop him. He slung Dean's arm over his shoulder—gasping at the blood pouring over his shirt—and began to walk. Dean trudged forward with a set face, determined not to give Jamie the satisfaction of seeing how much pain he was in. Sam didn't take his eyes off his brother as they followed her down the street, away from the moderate safety of the well-lit main roads for the shady back roads lined with dilapidated barns and farmhouses.

Sam thought the walk would kill Dean. It took a half an hour of cursing, and with each passing minute Dean seemed to sink slowly towards him, pulling Sam down with more of his weight. Sam marched on without complaint, and his brother said nothing out of spite. Sam counted how many steps they were from the main road and each turn they made. It wouldn't be easy to find their way by landmark in the dark. One hundred paces and twenty two down the street adjacent the main road. A left turn. Two hundred and seventy four down one on the outskirts of a neighborhood. Right turn. No houses. Two hundred and thirty seven steps. Left turn. Empty cow paddocks and farm houses. Four hundred and eighty five steps. Another empty, wilting farmhouse, tilted extremely to one side. They turned down the overgrown, weed-eaten drive and stepped in from the relative brightness of the moonlight into the shadows beyond.

"Honey, I'm home," she trilled mockingly.

Dean, barely awake and weary, didn't register anything aside from one fact: the place was alarmingly empty. One solitary figure lay spread eagled on a carpet of damp, moldy hay, face up and eyes frozen. An empty shell. He also noted that the body was not that of either Bobby or his father, which brought such a wave of relief he felt his body relax. Sam crumpled a little beneath the weight.


	6. Chapter 5

**So after a too-long hiatus and more than a few reviews/messages about this story, I realized that I never posted this chapter. Which is really crappy of me, because I had it sitting in my hard drive. The one that I was completely certain I had lost. So I'm sorry. I'm bad. I know. Anyways. I'm thinking this is a good place to end it unless you want some brainless family drabble. Or some more Bobby. Everybody loves Bobby. But it will probably end here. Unless it's awkward. In which case tell me.**

"Where are they, Bobby?" John asked, slamming the driver's side door shut after himself. Bobby sat with his hands folded in his lap, deep in thought. "Where the hell are they?"

Bobby sighed. "Look, here's what I'm thinking. They know we aren't going to leave until we find them—one way or the other." Meaning dead or alive was John's interpretation, at which point he threw Bobby his most pointed glare. "If that barn is where they figure we're going to be, that's where they're going to want to go to help each other out if they're in this together, and it sounds like in this case they might have been. If that demon girl the other was talking about—Jamie—if she's going to show up with the boys anywhere, it's going to be there. So I say we quit wasting our time around hunting around here for them and head to where we know they're going to end up."

"And if they're not there?"

"Then they're off gallivantin', probably hustlin' some pool or something—_of course they're going to be there_! That's where the demon 'll be," Bobby's voice was firm. John peeled out of the empty parking lot without much regard for the spattering of other vehicles present. He was lucky to have hit none of them, but he wouldn't have stopped in any case.

"I'll kill the boys, I swear," Bobby sighed.

"Me first."

Bobby was shocked at the tone John had taken in reference to the inevitable and well-deserved punishment of his kids. He was usually emotionally vacant in regards to anything but the inflicting of physical pain upon the two of them.

It had been a half an hour, and Sam sat quite helpless in the farthest flung corner of the barn watching his brother fade. The steady decline of his condition was all that Sam's attention could be bothered with. He knew of at least one other devil's trap nearly two hundred feet away, hidden in one of the stalls to his left. But he'd thought it over. The demon girl was standing like a statue just outside the reaches of the devil's trap in which the shell of her partner lay, spread-eagled and broken looking. But her eyes were to them. There was no way to go about sneaking that far away without her knowing. Sam would risk going alone if not for fear of what she might do to the stationary brother.

Sam's instincts told him to "keep an eye on the bitch with the knife" (or had that been Dean? He wasn't positive). But on the other hand Dean's descent into unconsciousness was of more pressing concern to the youngest Winchester. He'd done all he could, but blood still leaked out from between Dean's fingers from the stab wound in his leg, and the flannel over shirt he was holding to his shoulder was soaked heavily in blood which was thankfully dyed black by the insufficient light. Sam's stomach did a back flip anyways. He'd always had a weak stomach.

"Dad's going to be here soon, don't worry about it," Dean managed to mumble for what seemed like the thousandth time. As though _Sam_ were the one in danger.

"Just be quiet, Dean. Please be quiet. I know he will. Just don't talk," Sam couldn't help the tears that were leaking, which probably weren't of any comfort to his older brother. He swore quietly under his breath—he couldn't help but cry in the wake of the situation in which he now found himself, out of sheer terror not for his own life but for Dean's. But Dean interpreted that fear as fear of the monster that was threatening the both of them, and so made his job, as always, to comfort his younger brother. So much wasted energy…Sam stifled a sob and watched his brother's eyelids flutter open for the first time in what seemed like days.

"Don't talk? Come on, Sammy. You know me."

"Okay, so bad new kiddos." The demon's voice abruptly terminated their conversation. Sam turned, wondering what on earth he was going to do to protect his brother. Dean raised his arm weakly to bar in front of Sam. It was all the strength he could muster for a protective gesture. "Your daddy isn't here, and I'm bored. And more than a little pissed about my friend. So I'm taking the eye for an eye approach. I only need one of you."

Sam thought for sure his heart would drop out of his stomach. _Think, Sam. Think._

"But then how do you know which one of us knows where the gun is?" he blurted out. Dean didn't show any signs of confusion, which Sam appreciated in one aspect because it meant that he could play it off, and on the other hand worried him for the lack of response.

"The gun isn't here," she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Right. But I found out where it is."

"Well, well Sam. Smarter than your dad already."

"My dad is on his way right now. He's smart enough to figure out that you'll be back here and when he finds you—"

"If he finds me. I could always just kill the two of you and ditch this hellhole."

"Then why stay here in the first place?"

"Revenge is sweet, but if I have to die to do it well then…he really wasn't worth that much anyways." She regarded the body with some contempt. "I want the gun. I had the intention of wasting your dad after I questioned him about it but now that I have you, maybe I don't need to wait around for daddy."

" You're going to let me and my brother go."

"Oh am I? Well. Aren't we quite the demanding little brat. Does that very often get you what you want?"

"Often enough."

It was then that headlights came flashing down the road, making the shadows in the room slide sideways in a disorienting shuffle. The demon's eyes flicked to the open barn door, her attention was drawn, at and it was in that moment Sam chose to dash for the devil's sign, dashing over an empty bucket, vaulting over a stack of hay blaes, and throwing himself over the stall door, which was bolted shut. He fumbled for the loose boards in the wall—fresh air and moonlight was leaking in through them—but his small fingers couldn't pry the boards away from the wall. He dared not give up his trap by glancing up, but it was all he could do to hope that he would be out of her reach when she crossed into the path of the trap. And cross she did—her hand gripped the door and ripped it backwards, gouging a chunk out of the wooden frame and sending the bolts flying. Her mouth flicked up at the corners in the smallest semblance of a smile when she stepped over the splinters, her teeth glistening pearly white in the light. Her eyes were black as pitch now, and she hissed as she reached a hand out towards his face. Her fingers curled around empty air, her smiling fading. She looked down first, kicking away the hay. Nothing. She looked up, glared at the devil's trap for a half a second, and let out such a shriek of fury and frustration that Sam covered his ears. She clawed the air in front of him wildly, but reached nothing. Pressing himself up against the wall, he climbed over the stall's adjacent wall and let himself out of the next one over, running to his brother's aid just as Bobby and John came through the front barn door.

"Sam! Dean!" John dropped to his knees before the two brothers. Dean gathered the strength and bravado to flash his father an alarmingly smart ass smile.

"Told you we could handle it, dad."

"I can see that," John breathed.

"Christ, kid, how many holes do you got in ya?" Bobby asked, removing Dean's hand from his shoulder while John inspected his leg.

And for his father, Dean rallied in his last attempt at humor before the well earned on-slaughter of parenting hit the both of them. "Bitch was frisky."

"Let's go. You've got a long night ahead of you. Those are going to need stitches. And don't think you're getting off the punishment because of it. I'll lecture you both later." John didn't have to say that he was relieved to see that the boys were okay—they both knew that the look on his face was relieved enough to convey it—which was good that they thought so, because he wasn't going to tell them in any case.

Bobby hauled himself to his feet, taking out the passage for the exorcism, and began. His mumbling and the shrieking of the demon were all white noise to Sam as he helped his dad get his brother into the backseat of the car. Dean stretched his now perforated leg across the backseat, so that his foot was in Sam's lap. John shut the door after him and went to make sure Bobby was handling everything okay, after throwing the boys a richly deserved look of black suspicion as though he feared they were going to sneak off again.

"Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time dad says we're staying in, don't convince me to go out."

Which made Sam laugh a little and temporarily forget the fact that he'd just been watching his brother bleed to death slowly. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

And then it was back. The horrifying images Sam was sure he would never be able to erase from his mind. He was almost certain he wouldn't be sleeping for the next week. "But seriously, Dean. Don't ever make me watch you die again."

"Alright. Dad will make you leave the room later tonight when he lays into me anyways. So no worries about that."

"How bad do you think we're about to get it?"

"Thirty lashes maybe?"

Sam gulped involuntarily.

**All your reviews and requests that I finish this really were appreciated. You guys are awesome! Even if it had me going 'Damn, gurl. How far back you scroll? o.O' half the time. I appreciate it nonetheless. Commentary is much appreciated.**


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